


Mycroft Cannot Handle Sherlock's Love Life

by Sheridan_Hope



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Love in Particular, M/M, Mycroft Basically Freaks Out and Can't Act Like a Normal Human Being, Mycroft Can't Handle Sherlock Expressing Emotions, Mycroft Doesn't Know How to Use MI5 and MI6 Agents, Mycroft Has an Underground Bunker With Which to Spy on Sherlock, Mycroft is a Creepy Stalker, Mycroft is stupid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 14:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11853273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheridan_Hope/pseuds/Sheridan_Hope
Summary: A short sequel to Amber_Lee's short story Fatal Flaw (which you really need to read before reading this, otherwise it won't make much sense), in which Mycroft cannot handle certain developments that happen in the last chapter of her story.





	Mycroft Cannot Handle Sherlock's Love Life

_ Caring is not an advantage. _

It was a mantra Mycroft Holmes had repeated to himself ever since he was little. Whenever he felt himself becoming attached to anyone or anything, he would repeat that simple phrase and spare himself the pain that came with those attachments. Some would call it a lonely life, but Mycroft disagreed. He had himself, after all.

As he grew older, Mycroft’s faith in the phrase was tested, but in the end he was always proven right. Until one day when his brother defied all expectations, and did something  _ incredibly _ caring.

Throughout his adolescence Sherlock had always idolized Mycroft, although he would never admit it, so when Mycroft told him that love was a weakness, something to be avoided, Sherlock took that wisdom to heart. In truth, it was probably what kept him from breaking in his career as a consulting detective. Most people would surely suffer some ill effects after being around so much death and sorrow, but because of Sherlock’s detached nature, he never let it get to him. He pushed onward, stalwart and strong. Mycroft was actually rather proud of him, but he would never let that show. Not if he wanted to maintain his brotherly reputation, that is.

So it came as a rather large shock to Mycroft when he found out about Dr. John Hamish Watson. Sherlock’s new flatmate. At first, he thought nothing of it. Their relationship was a symbiotic one, mutually beneficial for them both. Sherlock gained an assistant he didn’t hate (with the added bonus that said assistant had a decent medical background), and John had someone with whom to pay the rent. Those first few weeks of their relationship seemed idyllic; so calm and peaceful. Normal. Well, for them anyway. The truth was, they were hectic and stressful, and Mycroft was constantly watching. His cameras and microphones were everywhere. But they were simple. John was straight and military, and Sherlock was coolly distant, not to mention asexual. But then…  _ something  _ happened. More specifically,  _ Moriarty  _ happened. 

When the evil genius known as Jim Moriarty first entered their lives, the collateral damage was huge. Sherlock was outmatched, and he began… to  _ care _ . Mycroft had watched the whole showdown at the pool. He had had both MI5  _ and _ MI6 agents on standby in case they were needed, and he had cameras recording everything, but unfortunately, the footage couldn’t be used to convict the man, as  _ someone _ had wiped all of the files afterward. Fortunately for Sherlock and John, the agents weren’t needed, as Moriarty left of his own accord. But, Mycroft  _ did _ notice something that upset him dearly.

His brother… was  _ nervous. Agitated. Rattled.  _ Concerned _ over the safety of another human being. _

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As soon as the criminal mastermind was out of sight for the first time, Sherlock was on John in a heartbeat, musician’s fingers shaking whilst frantically working the fastenings of the Semtex vest and flinging it away from them. He desperately asked John if he was okay. If he was hurt. With sincerity, not just repeating the droll social niceties, boredom evident in his voice. No, he was serious. He was  _ scared _ . And, all the while, there was fear in his eyes.

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It was in that moment Mycroft realized that his brother, the impenetrable, invincible, robotic brother of his… had developed a  _ weakness.  _

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Granted, as weaknesses went, this was a pretty good one to have. John was a fierce fighter, and he could take care of himself  _ and  _ Sherlock. He was kind, loyal, independent, and a caretaker, basically making up for any of the humanity Sherlock lacked. Or that Mycroft had assumed he’d lacked. He was beginning to doubt that assessment now.

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As the years went on, Mycroft noticed the two of them growing close, and he was at least willing to concede that Sherlock had made a friend. But he was unable to comprehend Sherlock going any further than that, as he’d known him all his life. Sentimentality? Sherlock? Love? They didn’t mix.

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But, Mycroft had to admit, despite his own lack of sentimentality and feelings in general, watching John fall apart after Sherlock’s “death” rather tugged at the heartstrings. Mycroft remained stoically distant throughout the whole affair. 

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He was even willing to see Sherlock’s disappointment at John moving on and getting married. To lose such a close friend must’ve hurt, although Mycroft had no frame of reference for that. He tried his hardest to understand by picturing what it would be like if Sherlock abandoned him, and found, rather worryingly, that he  _ could _ indeed picture it, and it was painful. So painful in fact that maybe, just maybe, a single tear rolled down his cheek as he held Sherlock in his arms after the wedding while he poured out his soul to Mycroft through every means short of actual speech.

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And then Mary had died. And John had broken Sherlock again. It had taken every ounce of Mycroft’s self control (and a fair amount of persuasion and intimidation from Anthea, if he was being entirely honest) not to personally unleash all of the nation's nuclear force upon John's house for all the hurt he had caused his baby brother. So when they made up, Mycroft was relieved. No nuking would be done today.

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He was doubly relieved when John moved back in. Just like old times. Simpler times. Almost. Except…

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The baby. Rosie. That was her name. Mycroft had never been good with children. They lacked the experience necessary to navigate the world, not to mention the motor control needed to  _ literally _ navigate the world. They tested his patience more than he would like to acknowledge. And he was a  _ very  _ patient man.

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Then the whole debacle of Eurus had happened, and, while everyone came out physically unscathed, it would take their souls and minds years to recover. And all the while, Mycroft watched the dynamic duo from afar.

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Rosie got older. She became more tolerable. Mycroft developed a fondness for her. Even gifted her a specially made umbrella on her thirteenth birthday. She was an unusually bright child, but had a clear sense of empathy. The best of both worlds from her fathers, it seemed. Even though Sherlock wasn’t her father by birth, he couldn’t be a more perfect substitute. He was, Mycroft begrudgingly conceded, finally better at something than his older brother.

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Rosie was a good girl with a good heart and a good mind. She certainly didn’t deserve the events that had transpired. Her father being poisoned, her best friend’s mother and, not to mention her best friend, murdered in brutal ways, and her other, surrogate father falling apart. Unsure of himself. Not to mention their sweet little landlady’s betrayal. But, fortunately, the ending was a happy one. One that Mycroft certainly had some thoughts on.

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Once he’d found out John had been poisoned, Mycroft immediately sent his men to set up cameras, medical monitors, and microphones in his hospital room, and wirelessly hooked them up to an HD screen in his bunker under his house. It was large, so he could capture every detail.

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He spent his entire day just watching the monitors and the screen. It was a rather dull job, but an important one. Mycroft saw how John made Sherlock better. More human. He wasn’t going to let that go without a fight because, in a way… John changed  _ him _ too.

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The whole case was wrapped up within a day or so. He watched, hawk-like, as the nurses administered the antidote, on the lookout for anything suspicious. He watched Rosie's recovery, which, fortunately, was a quick one. When Rosie finally regained consciousness, he turned up the volume in his headset to listen to the rather touching conversation that ensued between her and her father. He felt something stir within him, something that felt an awful lot like feelings, but he wasn’t opposed to feelings anymore. Well-controlled ones  _ did  _ seem to be an advantage, Mycroft realized.

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He was suddenly brought back to what was happening by a sigh from Rosie as she looked over her unconscious father, who appeared to be much better, as the swelling and redness had gone down. 

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Someone stepped up behind them. The little morgue technician, Molly Hooper. She spoke, static obscuring her words slightly, although Mycroft could still discern, “It’s not exactly visiting if the person you’re visiting is unconscious, is it? It’s more of a viewing.” Even with his rather jaded outlook on emotions, Mycroft could tell that was a bit Not Good.

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Sherlock and Rosie turned to the young woman, who seemed to wilt under their collective gaze, giggling awkwardly. “Okay, sorry,” she mumbled, wringing her hands.

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A moment of silence followed, during which Sherlock took the opportunity to glide over to the bed, nimble fingers ghosting over John’s and resting on the mattress. However, his eyes were still on Molly, and he seemed unaware of what he was doing. But then, all of a sudden, everyone’s eyes, as if on some silent cue, swivelled towards the comatose man. Or, formerly comatose.

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He was awake.

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“John!” Sherlock shouted. Mycroft blinked at the volume, and in that split second, he had missed so much. When he opened his eyes again, Sherlock was…  _ kissing _ John.  _ Kissing him. _ Sherlock had placed a hand on John’s cheek and slipped another around the back of his neck, effectively trapping him. A strangled yelp passed John’s lips, but that seemed to be mostly from the surprise, as, after a moment, he reciprocated, reaching up and tangling his fingers in Sherlock’s wild curls. Sherlock seemed to melt under John’s touch and he moaned into his mouth. Sherlock, the man who never says anything without a reason…  _ moaned.  _ Mycroft almost couldn’t believe his eyes, but the various reactions of the others on the screen told him he wasn’t imagining it.

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Over by the door, Rosie gasped, and was in the process of trying, and failing, to cover a smile. Molly looked as if she were being shocked with a cattle prod. Mycroft felt an unexpected stab of sympathy. The poor girl had been hopelessly in love with Sherlock for as long as they’d been working together, and to see this must have been something else. 

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However, it was Mycroft who had the most, shall we say,  _ visual _ reception of the situation. Some lesser mortals may have said he “flipped out.”

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Without thinking, Mycroft slammed his fists on the polished mahogany desk before him. A resounding thud echoed through the halls of the concrete lined bunker, followed shortly by a rather thunderous groan of frustration. Or maybe not frustration, but it  _ was _ a groan. Mycroft pushed himself away from his desk, propelling himself halfway across the room in his swivel chair.

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“God!” he cried, exasperated. “What was that!?” In the video, it seemed others had similar questions, but he tuned them out. Then, as an afterthought, he reached up and flung his headset at the couch, where it settled rather more peacefully than he would’ve preferred. This somehow made him more frustrated, and he screeched. 

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His focus was caught, at that moment, by the sight of several of his guards, and Anthea, standing in the doorway, looking at him apprehensively. Feeling more than a little embarrassed, Mycroft stood, chin high, smoothed the front of his suit down, and looked them all in the eye at once. Somehow. That was one of his many powers.

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“You didn’t see that,” he said stiffly. They were still standing there, gawping like fish gasping for oxygen. He clapped his hands loudly, and they snapped to attention. “Chop chop! Don’t you have places to be?” They quickly scattered, and Mycroft was left alone. He brought his attention back to the screen, where Sherlock was busy chatting to that policeman fellow. Inspector Lestrade, if his memory served. Mycroft couldn’t help snorting at Sherlock’s appearance.

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His face was as red as Mycroft had ever seen it, and especially hilarious, given his normally pale complexion. His scarf was partially untied, shirt undone at the top, and his hair was a mess, normally artfully styled curls fluffed up in every direction. Couple that with his labored breathing, and he was certainly a sight to behold. Sneakily, Mycroft took a screen capture, and double checked the files to make sure they had been saved. While at first it had made him distinctly uncomfortable, Mycroft could now only look at the footage and think one thing. 

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_ Blackmail. _

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But the malice was taken out of his thought when he saw the happy family talking and laughing and hugging and crying tears of joy and sadness. Because that’s what they were: a family. Mycroft smiled, a genuine one, and took another screen capture. As much as he denied any ties to love in general, he kept a framed print of that picture on his desk for years to come. 

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But no matter his good feelings, he would never let Sherlock hear the end of this. Mycroft tried not to lick his lips and rub his hands together like a cartoon villain, but eventually relented and added an evil cackle for good measure. Oh, the fun he would have.

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**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to Amber_Lee for inspiring this story and for being my beta reader and helping me edit and basically being there for moral support when my brain wasn't working. It means a lot to me!


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